People don't like it when you sleep under tents in places you don't own. Something about property taxes and "Oh, Maker! What's that smell?" I wouldn't risk it if I were you. Locals seem nice, but there's always a government with pointy sticks.
[Hawke is already sizing this kid up as she talks, but it's mostly for show. This happens every time she runs across girls who look about Bethany's age before she died, and it's always difficult to be reminded of that. Her sister would have approached someone like this, too. The thought almost makes her wince.
Instead, Hawke's smirk softens into something a little more gentle.] You're new here too, then. Might as well pull up a chair. Or sit on the cheese—it looks stale enough for it, anyway. What's your name?